


And now good-morrow to our waking souls

by TC (thecollective)



Series: till the end of the line [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Dean ships Stucky, Dream Sex, Gift Fic, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post 11x02, Top!Cas, angsty smut, bottom!Dean, shameless use of winter soldier for my own purposes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:05:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5077090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecollective/pseuds/TC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel, seeking to escape the effects of Rowena's curse, dream walks into Dean's unconsciousness. Smut ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And now good-morrow to our waking souls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CD (thecollective)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecollective/gifts).



> This is a sequel to "Nightingale", so I recommend reading that one, also in this series. 
> 
> This is a gift fic for my beloved Collectiva Diva. Happy birthday darling, I've given you Destiel smut with a dash of Stucky. If that's not proof of my love, nothing is. 
> 
> I don't own Supernatural or Marvel or any of its characters. I make no profit from writing this (other than kudos).   
> Title comes from John Donne’s “The Good-Morrow”: If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, ‘twas but a dream of thee. And now good-morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love, all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room an everywhere.
> 
> Warnings: Castiel enters Dean's dreams without permission, so all sexual acts are of a somewhat dubiously consensual nature. Set somewhere after 11x02.

He thinks of Madame Butterfly. He doesn’t think of shackled wrists or curses or primordial evils that have been unleashed in this dimension.

Instead, he pushes past the constant pull on his instinct, the relentless urge to _fight, maim, kill, slaughter, butcher._ He thinks of Puccini’s aria, the one in the final act, when Madame Butterfly thinks that her long lost lover has returned to her again. He repeats the aria over and over in his mind, willing it to push back the murderous rage. It helps, for a while, and then Sam comes in the room and he yanks so hard at the shackles that they cut into the tender flesh of his vessel’s wrists.

His vessel. Jimmy.

Jimmy’s gone. Dead. This body, this careful stitching together of atoms, is his.

He doesn’t think about it.

He doesn’t talk about it.

The Winchesters know.

Dean knows.

They don’t talk about it.

He pulls harder against the shackles, but he is too wounded, too weak, to break them. He knows what Uriel would say, if he saw him.

_Human_.

He clings to these rambling thoughts, until Uriel’s voice and Madame Butterfly merge together, and the aria being sung is no longer about her lover who’s forgotten her. Instead, the song drifts over Castiel’s memories, of dreams that make this yearning to be human thrum through every strand of his Grace.

Castiel thinks about a dream that wasn’t his. He thinks about lowered eyelashes and half-smiles and a throaty voice whispering, “Hey, Cas.”

But Dean and he, they don’t talk about it. It’s been a long while since Castiel last walked through Dean’s dreams. He thinks about that last time often. He thinks of assassins with metal arms, of captains with impressive physiques, and of the planes of Dean’s golden skin. He knows that Dean watched that film again, the one that he likes to dream about. He also knows that Dean is asleep down the hall, nestled in a warm wool blanket.

Perhaps his tendency to linger on this memory is what lets his consciousness drift away from this vessel, _this body_ , that he can’t control. He can’t dream, not the way that Dean can, but perhaps if he moves his consciousness to Dean’s subconscious, he can lessen the effects of Rowena’s curse. He closes his eyes, lets his body go slack, and falls into Dean’s dream.

It’s dark in Dean’s mind. For a moment, Castiel thinks the Winchester isn’t dreaming. Even so, Dean is a respite from the bloodlust that consumes him, a safe port from an angry sea. Then Castiel hears it, the smallest whispers in the corners of the hunter’s mind. It slithers through the dark, a serpent of self-loathing.

_He’s not the kind of man you save. He’s the kind you stop_.

It repeats over and over. Castiel looks for its source. He wants to choke it, to snuff out the self-doubt and hatred that has plagued Dean for years. Then he hears a new refrain.

_Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky_.

The dark dissipates and rolls away to reveal the metal-armed assassin fighting the captain aboard a floating ship. Castiel recognizes it as a scene from the film. He wonders why Dean has chosen to replay this moment in his subconscious; it isn’t like the last time he dream-walked, when Dean was consumed by lust and physical pleasure. The scene plays out, with the assassin fighting the captain. The captain seeks to remind the other of their shared history. “Don’t do this,” the captain says.

Castiel moves closer to them, looking for Dean. The two men fight as if he isn’t there, because he isn’t really. He’s taken aback when a portion of the floating aircraft falls away. He sees Dean standing on the other side. He’s taken even further aback when a portion falls on Dean, pinning him to the grated walkway. He rushes to Dean’s side, lifts the rubble off of him. “Dean?” he says. “Dean?”

“Don’t call me that,” he says.

“Dean?”

Dean punches him, and it lands squarely on the zygomatic bone. Castiel lets himself feel it. “Dean,” he says again. “ _Dean_. This is a dream.”

Dean hits him again and again and again, and the metal arm should cause a sickening crunch. The angel’s facial bones should collapse under the force of Dean’s aggression but although Castiel allows himself to feel the pain, there is no blood. Dean doesn’t want to hurt him, not really. “You’re my mission,” Dean says. Suddenly Castiel realizes that Dean is dreaming that he’s the metal-armed assassin, and that Dean must be seeing him as the blond captain.  So he lets Dean strike him. He remembers how the film ends; he knows that Dean will end up saving him.

After one particularly vicious hit, Castiel is thrown to the edge of the platform, dangling over the abyss of Dean’s subconscious. “Dean,” he says again. “ _Dean, please_.”

“Cas?”

The scenery shifts, changes. The floating aircraft is gone, and they’re in the bunker again. Dean is poised above him, angel blade in hand, about to strike. Castiel recognizes this scene from his own memory. He reaches up, curls his hand around Dean’s wrist. “Dean, please,” he says again. He can see the Mark reflected in the angel blade. Even if it is only a projection of Dean’s subconscious, Castiel flinches from the evil that protrudes from it.

“Cas,” Dean says. “I didn’t want to do this.”

“I know.”

The angel blade clatters to the floor. Dean stands up. Castiel follows. “This is a dream, isn’t it?” Dean asks. “Are you really here?”

“This is a dream,” Castiel confirms.

Dean rubs one hand along his jaw. He sees the Mark on his arm, and he frowns. “I should’ve kept it,” he says. “If I had, the world wouldn’t have gone to shit.”

“You can’t know that,” Castiel says. “Evil tends to find a way to do what it wants.” He steps closer to Dean, takes Dean’s arm in his hands and rubs his thumbs along the Mark. He wishes he could burn it away, but it’s Dean’s dream and Dean’s subconscious needs to see it. “However,” Castiel continues, “I have also seen that good tends to find a way to triumph over evil.” He covers the Mark with his hand. “This did not define you when it stained your arm, and it does not define you know that it is gone. You are human, and as I understand, that means that it is in your nature to make a mistake. It is only human to regret mistakes.”

Dean leans in and kisses him. It’s not like last time, when kissing Dean was charged with lust. Dean kisses him now as an apology—it’s soft, and tentative, but Castiel can feel the _I’m sorry_ behind the drag of their lips. Castiel kisses back, and it’s just as much of an apology. He’s sorry that he can only steal moment like this in dreams, that over the millennia he’s existed, he has yet to learn a form of communication that will let him and Dean end up like this in the conscious realm.

Dean pulls him closer, kisses his way down the angel’s neck to that place where the collarbone meets the sternum. He undoes Castiel’s tie, throws it to the ground. His coat and shirt are next, and then his trousers. And then Castiel is naked, laid bare before Dean’s feasting eyes. If Castiel had a soul, he would say that Dean was staring straight into it. He’s tempted to look away, the urge surprisingly _human_.

Yes, Castiel thinks, Uriel would laugh at how human he has become.

Dean blinks, and they’re no longer in the front room of the bunker. Instead they’re in Dean’s bed, naked, pressed thigh to thigh. Dean’s rough fingers trace Castiel’s hip bone, coming to a rest on the posterior superior iliac spine. Dean seems perfectly content to lay there, gazing into Castiel’s eyes. This time he doesn’t resist the urge to look away, and Dean cradles Castiel’s chin with his hand, turns his face back to his. “Hey,” he says, “This is a dream, right?”

Castiel nods.

Dean smiles, and Castiel feels like he did the first time he touched Dean’s soul.

_Save him._

Even after all these years, he still doesn’t know how to put words to those feelings, so he follows the Winchester’s lead and kisses Dean instead. Dean moans, and rolls them so Castiel is flat on his back, pinned to the bed by the other man. He can feel Dean’s cock, heavy and dripping against his thigh. He arches up, knowing that friction will cause them both pleasure. He is rewarded by a loud moan from Dean, followed by a string of curse words that would make a better angel uncomfortable. So Castiel does it again, shifting his hips so that his cock rubs along the length of Dean’s. This time, along with cursing, Dean collapses onto the angel’s body, rubbing as much of himself on to Castiel as possible. He rolls them over, so Castiel is on top. “It’s my dream,” Dean says. “You do the work.”

Castiel reaches down and grabs Dean’s cock. He pumps it once, twice, so slowly that Dean bites his bottom lip and squirms. “Cas,” he says. “ _Please_.”

If this were not a dream, Castiel would take his time preparing Dean. He would take him apart until Dean could no longer curse, or form syllables at all. But from past experience, he knows that Dream-Dean doesn’t like to wait and can’t feel pain if he doesn’t want to. “It’s okay,” Dean says as if he can hear Castiel’s thoughts. “It’s a dream.” Castiel positions himself between the hunter’s legs and presses in. Dean lets out another long moan when Castiel is fully seated. He wraps his legs around the angel, entangling them together. “Slow,” Dean says. “Like you mean it.”

Castiel doesn’t understand what Dean meant by the last statement, but he does move slowly, his cock dragging in and out of Dean only fractions of an inch per second. The feeling is nearly overwhelming to Castiel. He’s see Dean as a warrior, as the Righteous Man, and as a friend, but now Dean looks at him as if they were something much more than that. This, Castiel thinks, this is what humans mean when they talk about two becoming one. He can feel Dean’s heart where it beats in his chest, and if he concentrates enough, he could have his heart beat in sync with Dean’s.

Castiel thinks again of Madame Butterfly, but instead of her aria, he hears Dean’s soft exhales and the way he breathes out Castiel’s name as they move together. He reaches down to palm Dean’s cock as he moves with Dean, and Dean kisses him again, his lips crushing Castiel’s so hard that they would bruise if it wasn’t a dream.

_Save him._

He changes the angle of his thrusts to ensure that his cock brushes against Dean’s prostrate gland with each movement. “Yes, oh god, yes,” Dean moans. “ _Castiel_.” He repeats Castiel’s name, over and over again until he comes in the angel’s hand, his ejaculate coating Castiel’s fingers. Castiel licks his fingers clean, and Dean shudders. He locks his legs tighter around the angel, his heels overlapping at Castiel’s lower back. He urges Castiel to move faster, to come inside him. Dean kisses Castiel’s neck, his collarbone—anywhere he can reach—to punctuate Castiel’s thrusts. He presses a kiss over where his vessel’s— _Castiel’s_ —heart is and it’s that tenderness that sets Castiel over the edge. He spends himself in Dean, and the other man wraps himself around Castiel, cocooning him in between his limbs. Castiel rests his head on Dean’s chest. He can feel Dean waking up, can sense the restless edges of his mind beginning to drag their way up to the conscious level. He’s not ready to let go, to give this up and return to his vessel and Rowena’s curse. He clings to Dean, and it reminds him of the way Dean’s soul clung to him on the way out of hell.

_Save him_.

Dean wakes up, and Castiel is pushed back into his vessel. The shackles dig into his wrists, but for the moment he feels nothing of Rowena’s curse. Dean emerges from his room a short time later. He brings Castiel some water, and although the angel doesn’t really need to nourish his vessel, no, his body, the way humans do, he recognizes the gesture as one of kindness. “Thank you,” he tells Dean’s retreating back.

Dean pauses, looks back over his shoulder. He shrugs. “I’m with ya, buddy,” he says. He pauses, looks Castiel straight in the eye. He says, “ _Till the end of the line.”_  

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Kudos & comment are very much appreciated by the author!


End file.
